Outdoors: Mourning doves remain popular — and tasty — game bird

Mourning doves, which frequently dine at our local bird feeders, may well be America's most popular game bird. They can't be hunted, though, in Massachusetts, at least not by humans.

I recently had the privilege of participating in a traditional southern gentleman's dove hunt in Virginia, where 75 members of the local gentry — doctors, lawyers, prosperous businessmen and farmers — reveled in a sport with which I had little familiarity.

On this special day — by invitation only — wing shooters arrived at a farm privately managed specifically for birds. Sunflower and corn fields attracted thousands of doves.

Hunters checking in at the farmhouse were given their numbered stake positions. The dove-hunting fields had many parallel open swaths cut into them, so camouflaged shooters, who tucked themselves into the tall corn edges, had other hidden shooters about 50 yards to each of their sides, as well as about 100 yards directly across from them.

All shooters knew that only birds flying sufficiently high in the blue, safely above the level of hunters opposite and facing them, could be targeted. I quickly discovered this pass-shooting of falcon-fast flyers was far more difficult than the comparatively slow-motion pheasant hunting I'm used to.

Initially, I didn't lead the doves enough. My first shots embarrassingly tickled tails. By the end of the day, I shot better, bagging half-a-dozen birds — far from the daily limit of 15 that the really good wing shooters took in just half a day.

Returning to the farmhouse for our evening celebration and betrayed by my accent, I was immediately pegged as a Yankee. Since many of our Northeast doves winter in the Southeast, I was humorously thanked for feeding them. One of my drawling hosts, quite incredulous that we don't have a dove season in Massachusetts, appreciatively exclaimed with some good-natured ribbing, "You Yankees fatten them up good for us. We're deeply indebted to y'all."

When my daughter Jessica was still in elementary school, one cold, December afternoon, I met her at the school bus, a block from home. Walking along the road hand-in-hand together, we observed doves eating grit left behind by sanders. Like most birds, doves have no teeth, so they need grit in their gizzards to grind their seeds.

As we watched closely, a stealthy sharp-shinned hawk flew in for dinner. Feathers exploded as talons powerfully struck an unsuspecting dove. My little daughter was amazed by the drama.

Sadly, the hungry sharpy saw us, panicked, and flew off — without its meal. It was 4 p.m, and the sun was near setting. We hoped the hawk would return. Alas, it never did.

As darkness fell, I picked up the stricken bird. A drop of its blood dripped on my fingers. Jessica urged me to save it. She had previously seen me successfully rehabilitate a stunned bird that had crashed into our window.

But as we approached our doorsteps, I sadly saw its eyes close permanently. I discreetly brought it into the cellar, hid it, and returned upstairs.

Jessica asked, "How's the little dove, Daddy?" Trying to neither lie nor hurt her feelings, I ambiguously told her with a smile, "It's gone." She optimistically interpreted that answer, wandering happily off, still believing dads can solve all problems.

Having a salvage permit for my bird and Lyme disease research, I resourcefully refrigerated the dove to bring to my science class, where instead of trashing it, we performed a dissection.

We dissected the keel-like sternum that supports Dolly Parton-size pectoral muscles, which power the bird's wings. After we identified feather structures, I put the fillets in my very untypical classroom refrigerator.

Reluctant to waste precious game meat, after everyone left, I curiously sautéed the breast medallions in the adjacent home-ec room. Medium rare and dripping in butter, they proved memorably tender and mild.

I'd very much enjoy eating dove again. But that won't happen unless I'm invited back to Virginia, or if one flies into my picture window — or another sharp-shinned hawk has a very bad day.